The Narrow Gate

by Linda Buck, CSJ, Leadership Collaborative Executive Director

This is a reflection based on the reading for Sunday, August 24, 2025. The reading are from Isaiah 66: 18 – 21; Hebrews 12:5-7, 11-13; Luke 13:22-30. This is a personal reflection, mingling with the readings in the context of today’s world.

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The wailing and gnashing of teeth and the small, narrow door that seems daunting to even envisioning one’s ability to pass through is not the most inviting of messages. Yet, there is usually a lesson in resistance. Resistance causes us to take a deep look at ourselves and the world – our hearts, attitudes and actions. The readings this Sunday caused this to stir in me – resistance, exploration, discomfort, and clarity. 

Jesus doesn’t offer a comforting answer to the question: “Will only a few be saved?” Instead, he tells a strange, unsettling story. People knocking on a door they thought they had a right to enter and a voice saying: “I don’t know where you’re from.” And suddenly, we’re not talking about salvation as a reward. We’re talking about relationship and about being recognized. Maybe that’s the narrow gate: not a test of moral worth, but the challenging path of being real. The path that invites us to let go of all the ways we perform and pretend. The path that invites us to a vulnerability in allowing ourselves to be known.

We live in a time where a lot is falling apart. Systems we trusted. Institutions we believed in. Even the stories we tell about progress and success. Whether we name it or not, we’re all sensing the slow unraveling. We are living through the slow death of a way of life built on control, certainty, and an illusion that fosters a false narrative that we can live separately from the Earth, from each other, from the consequences of our actions. Perhaps this system isn’t meant to be saved. It’s meant to be hospiced. To hospice something means to walk with it as it dies. With tenderness. With clarity. Without pretending it can go on forever.

Maybe the Gospel message is asking something similar. What does it mean to walk with the death of old stories – those stories about who belongs and who doesn’t, about what makes someone “important,” and about what saves us? What if salvation isn’t about escaping this world, but about showing up for it—as it crumbles and as it tries to heal?

Hebrews reminds us that real growth doesn’t always feel good. It can be seen as “discipline,” but I wonder if we could understand it as grief training. This type of training evokes the kind of pain that humbles us. It cracks open our need to be right. It teaches us to stay present in the mess, even when we don’t have the answers.

What if the narrow gate isn’t about how few get in – but how hard it is to strip off the armor to even fit through the gate? What if it’s not about elite morality or theological precision – but rather, about letting ourselves be known? We don’t like to admit it, but many of us are terrified of being known. We perform. We posture. We use our “goodness” like a password. And maybe that’s what Jesus is naming. Not a punishment from on high – but the painful reality that it’s possible to live a life full of religion, service, even proximity to Jesus...and still never let ourselves be recognized. Never risk the nakedness of being seen.

And then, Isaiah…he is dreaming of something wild. Not a small, tidy group of “chosen” people; rather a massive procession of strangers from everywhere. Cartloads of people. Mules and chariots and fugitives. It’s not a purified few. It’s a crowd of unlikely companions, drawn together by something deeper than shared beliefs: a longing for a new way to live together.

Something new can be born. We are in a time that parallels the time of Jesus, as the systems of his day were also not working. Jesus’ life was oriented toward birthing something different, transforming these systems and transforming the hearts of the people. The old must be grieved and transformed. But grief isn’t just sadness—it’s love in motion. And when we learn to grieve well, we make room for something else: not hope as a fantasy, but hope as a humble companion. The kind that stays with you when the world feels too heavy to fix.

So maybe the narrow gate is not about fewer people making it in – rather, about fewer illusions making it through. It’s about transforming our lives so that there are fewer egos, fewer masks, and fewer stories of separateness.

Jean-Pierre Médaille, S.J., the 17^th century companion-founder of the Sisters of St. Joseph, speaks of two aims for the humility and self-emptying of Christ. The primary aim is to be “full of God” while the second aim is an openness to others that is linked simultaneously to God and to the neighbor. It is in the emptying of self that we are open to grace in order to be in relationship. This is love in motion, and it makes room for something else. Self-emptying love allows for an openness for authentic encounter and humility. As we are in relationship, we allow ourselves to be known.

We are seeking a new vision for our time. When I think about Isaiah’s vision of people coming from every land—carrying each other like offerings—I imagine a new kind of procession. Not the triumphant parades of empire, but the slow, unglamorous pilgrimage of people learning how to be with each other. Carrying the weak. Letting themselves be carried. Becoming “clean vessels,” not by being perfect—but by being willing to be filled.

What if that is the narrow gate? The humility to be carried. The courage to carry. The refusal to posture and the aching beauty of letting ourselves be known – not because of our importance, but rather because we are interconnected beings, both bruised and beloved. We are moving toward how we are called to become. We just have to be willing to loosen our grip and lessen our control.

Perhaps the real call from these readings is to realize that in order to fit through the narrow gate, it is not because we’re good enough—but because we’re willing to leave our armor behind – and that salvation is not a reward or a privileged position. It is a table. A feast. Salvation is a gathering of those who never thought they’d belong – and there is always room around this table.